


Mindless Rick Indulgence

by eastcoastlighthouse



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Gender-neutral Reader, Other, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 19:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11192073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastcoastlighthouse/pseuds/eastcoastlighthouse
Summary: I've been writing some Rick/Reader drabbles on Tumblr. (You can find mehere.) I figured I might as well post them on AO3 as well. Each chapter will feature a different Rick. I've tried to keep the reader as gender-neutral as possible but check the chapter-specific summaries for deviations from that rule.





	1. Land of the Blind (Four Eyes Rick/Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Four Eyes Rick/Reader drabble that is almost 99 % inspired by the great work [keepitschwifty](https://keepitschwifty.tumblr.com/) does for this fandom at large and me personally.

“Take them off.”

He scoffs at you. Even without the coat and the sweater and the pants, even in all his scrawny-chested glory with his hair a mess and his lips shiny with spit and god-knows-what else, he’s still wearing those fucking glasses and the very notion of removing them seems to be deeply offensive to him for some fucking reason. “No,” he says, in as pointed a tone as anyone could muster while dressed in nothing but a pair of off-white underwear.

“What do you mean, _no?”_ You crawl towards him on the mattress. Even though you’re the one on all fours and he’s leisurely leaning up against the headboard of your less-than-queen-sized bed, there’s no question as to who’s the one in charge right now. His gangly legs are parted (of course they are!) and you kneel between them, your chin tilted up, the corners of your mouth tweaked with something that is either amusement or open defiance.

“I need them to see,” he snaps at you. “Y-y-y-you think this is – that they’re some kind of fashion statement? I-I’m not gonna let you _blind_ me, alright? I don’t even know where the-where the fuck you’re from.”

He’s cute like this, isn’t he? Most of the Ricks you’ve been with have been three quarters bravado (at least), with the rest of them made up of some disgusting mix of self-loathing and sleaze. Not this one. This one seems almost _scared_ of you. Like you’d take advantage of him. “Don’t worry, baby,” you purr.

“Y-y-you think this is the first time I’ve been with some asshole like you?” Even though he won’t give up this shitty little protest act, his cock has a mind of its own and it’s straining at the graying cotton of his briefs. If you didn’t know better you’d expect to see a wet spot forming at the tip right about now. He’s been hard for _ages_ after all. “I trust you about as far as… as far as I can throw you.”

“You don’t need glasses for _that,_ ” you shrug. “The truth is you don’t need glasses for any of this.” If there’s any ambiguity in that statement, you quickly clarify matters by shoving a hand into his underwear. He’s hot and hard and his cock jerks the moment you curl your fingers around it, willing and ready even if the rest of him might not be. “See? Plus, losing your glasses should heighten all your other senses.”

“You’re taking cues from fucking – f-f-f-fucking _Daredevil?”_ he groans, but he’s bucking up against your warm palm anyway, his hands grabbing fistfuls of blanket as he tries (and miserably fails) to preserve some sense of dignity. 

“Aren’t you a man of science?” you ask him, only barely keeping up this whole naive pretense, your eyes half-lidded and your own downstairs situation feeling _more_ than a little affected by the man in front of you. It’s not even really the fact that he’s a Rick that’s got you all hot and bothered. It’s his vulnerability. You could almost call it _innocence._ “Let’s find out if _Daredevil_ is accurate.”

“Look, I’m asking you nicely.” Is he begging? It sounds like begging.

“Yeah, you’re real nice.” You pluck his glasses off of his pronounced nose, carefully fold them and put them on the nightstand. He makes no attempt to stop you, but the moment you take them off, he seems to collapse in on himself. Even for a guy as tall as Rick Sanchez, he seems small and vulnerable without his glasses. It’s hot as hell.

“This sucks,” he complains breathlessly, but you’ve experienced _breathlessly annoyed_ and _anxiously breathless_ before and this is neither. The blush that’s been on his cheekbones since you first got him into this position has steadily been creeping down and now it’s tinging his collarbones, his sternum, his chest.

“Does it?” you grin, and you give his cock a firm tug.

He tries to look at you, eyes unfocused. He clearly wasn’t lying about needing those glasses – he squints at you, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted, as he half-snarls at you: “Wh-wh-what’re _you_ getting out of this anyway?”

You squeeze the base of his dick (a strangled grunt your only reward – that, and the feeling of his cock jerking in your hand) and smile, a barely perceptible smirk that’ll surely escape him. You lean in close, your lips brushing up against his ear. “You know what they say about the land of the blind…” 

And who cares if he doesn’t know? The next stroke of your hand has him – no, it’s not even a groan anymore. He’s crying out now, his eyes searching the homogeneous oval that is your face for some sign of mercy.

“Oh, hush,” you smile, tugging at his cock until his eyes roll back in their sockets and he cums all over your skilful hand, his immeasurable intellect no challenge for you – especially without his glasses.

He’s left panting, his chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath, his eyes unfocused and dark and traveling from the top of your head to your chest, his expression changing from a scowl to a smile to something much less easily defined. “Fuck,” he whispers.

“Here’s a question for you,” you say, and if you were in doubt before, the way his breath hitches in his throat is enough for you. “Do you need glasses to eat someone out?”

And he shakes his head, finally cowed into silence, and slides down the headboard in blind obedience.


	2. Customer Service (Salesman Rick/Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smutty Salesman Rick/Reader drabble about the various benefits of bedding someone who makes a living sucking up to people.

Salesman Rick is one sleazy motherfucker, but he can be sweet as hell when he wants to be – there’s no denying that. The less forgiving part of you wants to chalk his sweet-talking up to a mercenary kind of insincerity, something he does because he wants something from _you,_ but why look at it from such a negative perspective? Maybe he’s just a nicer Rick than most and his success in business is just a side effect of that. _Success_ might not be the best description anyway. Sure, he’s fleecing Ricks left and right with overpriced Serums (ibuprofen and tequila) and counterfeit Mega Seeds (papier-mâché and Adderall) but you’ve got a keener eye than most and he’s not fooling you. From his ill-fitting suits to his fake Rolex, Salesman Rick oozes the illusion of being well-to-do and not much else.

Still, you don’t mind if he’s not being genuine. As long as he keeps being so damn _nice._ You’re here under the pretext of buying yourself something fancy, something to remember the Citadel by, but it seems as if he’s seeing through you just as easily as you’re looking through him. His voice is dripping with smarm when he snakes an arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer: “Anything for you! The customer is _allllllllllways_ right.”

You pick up a Courier Flap. It’s not particularly fancy but it might come in handy if you have to beat a hasty retreat at some point. “How much for this?”

He hems and haws, and finally decides: “Normally I’d say a-a thousand Schmeckles but for a client with a discerning eye such as y-y-yourself… let’s call it nine hundred. Ten percent discount. Pretty good.”

It’s pretty good, but it’s also over your budget. Your face betrays as much and you note with amusement that the deeper you frown, the higher he seems to raise his unibrow.

“Alright, well – make, make me an offer!” He’s still surprisingly bubbly and his arm doesn’t leave your shoulder. In fact, he gives your arm a squeeze that’d be wholly inappropriate if it weren’t for that dull throbbing between your legs.

“You need payment in Schmeckles?” you wheedle. “How about I offer you something else? Bit of a trade economy kind of deal?”

It’s gratifying to see him blush – that seems like the kind of thing that’d be wholly beyond someone as slick as this particular Rick, but apparently you’ve managed to catch him off-guard. He stammers: “Well, I-I-I don’t see how… if… I-I mean, I mean, y’know...”

You turn to him, acting the part of the darling naïf as best you can, pushing your chest up against him. He’s taller than you (most Ricks tend to be) but he appears to shrink all the same when you coo: “I’m _sure_ we can arrange something.”

For a moment it seems you’ve lost him, that you sprang too much on him too quickly. He whips to face the entrance to the shop and practically barrels towards the door, only to look it and press his back up against it. As if you’d try to leave. “Is y-your mouth writing checks y-y-y-your ass is gonna have to cash?” he asks, grinning a wide, yellow grin now that he no longer has to worry about people walking in on the two of you. “No store credit at Salesman Rick’s, alright? Y’touch it, you buy it.” And with that he advances on you, and even in that shitty gray suit and with his hair escaping the desperate hold of his pomade he’s breathtaking. The way he corners you, pushing you up against the cash register and fencing you in with an arm on either side might have more than a little to do with that.

“Don’t you know the best things in life are free?” you tease. Judging from the way he kisses you, he definitely knows as much. He’s a Rick, certainly, and the alcohol and bile on his tongue are unmistakeable, but at least this Rick deigns to suck on a breath mint every now and then. You respond enthusiastically, pulling him closer and jamming your leg between his thighs, grinding up against what is already quite a sizeable bulge.

He pulls away, smirks at you. “Aphorisms, huh? Here’s one – he who pays the piper calls the tune. Why don’t y-you get down on your knees, babe?”

You’re happy to oblige and sink to your knees immediately, looking up at him and marveling for the umpteenth time at the sight of a Rick towering over you. Doesn’t even matter which Rick. From down here, they pretty much all look the same.

This one is a little different still, and rather than grasping your hair and forcing your mouth against his crotch, he puts the tip of his finger under your chin to tilt your face up. “I-I think you were about to show me some of those best things in life?”

You nuzzle against the bulge in his (worn-down) suit pants. Hot and slightly musky, it’s exactly what you were expecting (and hoping for). He’s polite enough to undo his fly for you and he pulls out his cock. Where other Ricks might have slapped your cheek with it, this one waits patiently for you to come to him – and you need very little encouragement to do so. You lave your tongue along the underside of his stiff cock and revel in his various noises of approval and arousal before finally taking him in your mouth. He’s so damn hot and the way his hand simply rests on your cheek, exerting no pressure, is _really_ doing it for you.

“Th-th-this is worth about… fuck, two hundred Schmeckles, maybe?”

You glance up at him, offended. With redoubled efforts you continue to suck him off, rifling through your little drawer of tricks – the trip down to his sack, teasing his frenulum, and for a few brave moments you even manage to take him down to the base of his cock, your nose nestled in bright blue pubic hair as you fight the urge to gag. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s so nice and patient that got you all competitive. Or maybe you just want to be worth more than two hundred fucking Schmeckles.

“That wasn’t hard, was it?” he says, and it has to be his years of customer service experience that allow him to sound so sincere when he says it. It’s the only thing currently keeping you from using your teeth.

Instead, you moan in acquiescence and look up at him through your eyelashes. He might sound cool enough but he’s clearly flustered and he’s got one hand in his hair. That’s a pleasant sight and you decide to push it a little, moaning again, the vibrations enough to have him grit his teeth as his grip on his blue locks tightens. “Okay, okay. Six hundred.”

But that’s still not enough, and you pull out all the stops – your hand wrapping around the base to meet your spit-slick lips as you blow him like a pro, tilting your head and putting in your best effort, bobbing up and down to the rhythm of his crescendo of groans and grunts – and then he’s there, and perhaps the least polite thing he’s done today is not warn you before he shoots his load straight down your throat, hips hips stuttering as he tries to keep himself from ramming his cock inside you.

He offers you a tissue, a hand, and your well-deserved Courier Flap (in that order), and before you leave his store he tucks a receipt in your pocket. “In case you’re not satisfied. For a return,” he says – but when you take it out, walking down the Citadel promenade, you find the only number on it is his phone number.


End file.
